


And He Rode A Black Horse

by TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen



Series: Black Horse 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU (Canon Adjacent), Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Dean, BAMF Sammy, BDSM elements, Blow Jobs, Boy King, Broken Sammy, Deep Throating, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of previous non con / dub con, Rough Sex, Soulmates, Wild West, Wincest - Freeform, cowboy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen/pseuds/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen
Summary: Two men travel the wilds in an ongoing hunt for demons, but their tale is not a simple one. It encompases: grief and loss, power and control, Heaven and Hell, and love and acceptance.Along their travels they encounter the backwater town of Goodwill. And the townsfolk now whisper the legend of a dark giant clothed in black, with all the power of the world in his eyes. And all who behold him feel a chill at their back, for he rides a black horse and Death follows at his call.





	And He Rode A Black Horse

**Author's Note:**

> -I am not a Wild West expert - I just like legends, so decided to enjoy the setting, I hope you do too. This tale is set in “ye olden times” (nonspecific pre-industrial, nowhere-in-particular wilds of America) in a dimension slightly to the left of ours, so if I have gotten any historical details wrong, pretend that's the reason why ;P  
> -There’s S&M elements to the sex scenes and fairly dark themes (with bad BDSM etiquette). I enjoy reading BDSM fics that have good etiquette. And I didn't decide to ignore that for thrills. In this story the boys are NOT exploring mutual pleasure through kink. Their actions are a direct result of Sam's past history and current circumstances, which are fantastical and not instructional. (warning: also includes mention of past dub con / non con)  
> -This is my first time writing explicit content and suddenly when it's your own work, it's much more difficult to tell if you are pitching it right or not. Well, here goes nothing. (And as you hopefully realise by now: this is wincest. That’s: hot, boy on boy action between 2 guys that happen to be related. If that's not your thing, no worries, you have a lovely day, but if you decide to stay; have fun!)  
> -And finally this is unbeta’d and I am heavily dyslexic, plus we all know how hard it is to catch your own mistakes. I hope you can still manage to follow along. xx

\---***---

First there came sound. The dull clang of hooves striking packed earth - a ponderous steady percussion heralding the inevitable. 

Then from the dust emerged a dark Spector. A massive black steed taking shape like an angel of death descending to the realm of men - deigning its presence to an insignificant town lost in the middle of nowhere. The hide of the enormous beast glinted like liquid starlight in the blackest night, contemptuous of the punishing the midday sun. Surely it must be an omen of death or a fey creature brought to life, mysteriously impervious to the dirt and indignity of mortal life. 

It approached the town and from the glimmering heat surrounding the apparition, there slowly resolved the shape of a rider on its back. A dark giant clothed in garments as black as the steed but mat and flat where the beast shone like silver. The hat was pulled low to the face, he was wreathed in shadow despite the blazing sun. And all who beheld the fateful shade felt a chill at its coming and knew death followed at its call like a dog to his master.

-

It wasn't until the beast halted at the tavern porch that it became clear to the tavern keeper that one rider was in fact two. Directly behind the first sat a second, pressed so close to seem as one. Inches taller, he sat the horse with his broad chest joined to the back of the first, his long legs perfectly aligned against the other, his pale hands laid casually on the other’s thighs. Every tiny movement and shift atop the impossible mount, perfectly synchronised together. Both faces turned in unison to behold the tavern keeper, and the townsman was met with twin eyes, one pair that glittered green as jade bathed in sunlight and one pair that shone like mossy bark against a summer sky, but both cold for all their glory.  
"This place got a name?" 

The local man started at the sound and shifted his shoulder against the hitching post he had been casually leaning against. But though rough and low the voice that issued from the first apparition was human. It boyed the courage of the man in the face of the unknown and he cleared his throat to answer as strongly as he could.  
"Goodwill. Last town afore the badlands." This earned him a low grunt from the first - both pairs of eyes remained fixed and the townsman began to sweat. "I'm Felton, I run the tavern. If yer looking for a place to stop a while, we’ve clean beds an’ good whiskey." There was a pause then the first stranger returned a short nod, but nothing more. Felton began running his fingers nervously through the soiled bar rag he clutched absently in his hands. "You fellas got names?"  
"Winchester." The pronouncement flat like the slamming shut of prison bars. The second still hadn't moved. Felton flicked his eyes to him before turning back to the first.  
"Your friend don't talk much do 'e?" a nervous chuckle dying in his throat before it could fully form. The stranger’s expression remained set.  
"You don't want my brother talking."

The beast chose that moment to neigh and shake out it's mane. The first movement it had made since halting and Felton stumbled back spooked. Despite it's size and the very fact that the men were still mounted, it had stood as still as to be forgotten. The strangers shifted as one, before the one that talked reached forward, his first independent movement, and laid a calming hand to the neck of the beast. "We'll take that room." 

Swinging over a leg and sliding smoothly from the creatures back, entirely unhindered by his unmoving brother, his long black coat flared briefly as he dropped, before settling about his tall frame. A second later the other gracefully mimicked the action, immediately moving to stand side by side. Two tall dark shapes, both hats pulled low, framed by an impossible midnight beast standing in defiance of the midday sun.

The tavern keeper noticed the steed bore no tack or saddle, just packs sung over its rump. It was once again motionless as granite as the men moved in eerie unison to each take up their belongings. Cleared of its burden, the first placed a hand back on the obsidian beast and in a tone softer than any used thus far he murmured "Behave." The beast rolled a liquid onyx eye to the rider before snorting and turning to calmly walk back out of town. Felton watched bemused but knew better this time then to voice any questions before he turned to scurry inside. The two men strode into the tavern like twin gods of the storm, the silent one inches taller than the other, but both moving in step as if they owned the world. Shoulders and elbows touching as they stalked on. Steady paces ringing in perfect unison, echoing the same implacable percussion with which the beast had strode into town.

-

“One bed is fine.” The talker told the man, “Ground floor, at the back.”  
The tavern keeper held his tongue. Ain't no business of his anyway. The room he lead them to at the end of the corridor was adequately sized and clean, he didn't loiter. 

Dean shut the door behind them and used the barrier to close out the world.

"You doing okay Sammy?" He asked pulling off his hat and dropping his pack and moving to cradle his brothers face in his hands. The townsman would not have recognised the voice. It was still rough and low but far more gentle in tone. Sam breathed out slowly and let a tiny bit of tension bleed from his shoulders. "You know towns are hard for me Dean." His reply was soft, voice husky with disuse. There was something about towns that got Dean talking. In the wilderness he seemed content to know what his brother wanted even before he raised a hand, but let him speak to a townsperson for a few minutes and he was overlaying their communications with verbalisations for a week. But that wasn't the main reason Sam hated towns. They were far too dangerous, the agitation and constant distractions caused by the crowded bustle of unsuspecting fools who thought their tightly packed wooden houses gained them safety.

Dean took the pack off his brother’s shoulder and set it down, pushing the hat from the pale sweat marred forehead he let it also fall to the floor. His palms found their way back to the sides of Sam's face, curling fingertips into the fine warm hairs at the base of his neck and he leaned in to lay his forehead against his brothers. Their breath mingled as he breathed calmly in an steady rhythm, until their hearts beat slow and steady as one. The give and take of comfort, support and strength flowing unhindered back and forth between them for long minutes before Sam sighed and Dean ghosted his lips lightly against the others. "Just a few days Sammy. We'll stock up then pick up the trail and be out of here. You’re strong. You can hold it together till we leave. I'm not going anywhere. I'll keep the locals off you, you just keep everything locked tight."

Sam gave a short nod before surging in to claim his brothers mouth, a hard kiss harsh and violent. Dean stood calmly before the onslaught, responding to the sharp bites and demanding tongue thrusts with gentle licks and soft strokes until the frenzy calmed once more. "I'm here Sammy, I got you." He whispered and felt his brother shiver and within his amazing kaleidoscope eyes the spark of Hell Fires were banked for now but always, always burning. 

\---***---

Though the day had been early when the strangers came to town they made no move to leave the confines of the small tidy room tucked into the back of the tavern. The fragile planks of rough planed wood offering the illusion of isolation from the unaccustomed bustle of the isolated backwater town. Taking the last of the dried meat and trail bread from his pack, Dean placed a simple meal besides his brother who lay on the bed, his eyes closed, a small frown creasing his brow. He was not asleep. His heavy black coat and hat lay discarded on the floor but the boots remained on. “Don't forget to eat, Sam.” Dean murmured softly, gathering the coat and hat to lay beside his own across the bench at the end of the bed. Then moving back up to trail a light touch along the tense shoulder. The reply he received was a fraction of a nod, bare acknowledgement but sufficient.

Dean lowered himself to the rustic wooden chair at the side of the room under the tiny window and placed his elbows on an equally rough made but serviceable desk. In the afternoon light he began to inspect and clean his demon blade. He kept it sharp and keen but the action of maintaining his weapons was a familiar ritual that cleared his mind while he thought.

-

The only one who knew Sam had saved the world, not once but twice, was Dean.

Their father, a rough but kind man named John, hadn't been fond of cities. After serving some time with the Army, he had retired early to seek a new life out west. Taking his wife and infant son they had travelled out with a wagon train to see what new lands lay beyond the horizon. Dean had only the vaguest memories of that seemingly idyllic time. A mother with blond hair, a kind voice and warm arms that hugged tight. A fond smile on his father's face as he pointed out wildlife and told tall tales of where they were heading. It hadn't been ideal when they found out his mother was pregnant again. The road was hard enough with one young child, but there was nothing to be done but carry onwards. Sam had been born in the shadow of the mountains, as spring was starting to warm the earth and the snows had finally lifted. A quiet solemn baby with a sudden bright smile, Dean had immediately been entranced and soon found himself chief protector of the small, warm bundle- under the gentle eye of his mother of course. Then the demons had come.

On an empty stretch of land, long weeks from the next known outpost, the Hoard had appeared in the night, surrounded by flame and stinking of sulphur. The slaughter that fateful evening had been great, most of the train was lost, but Dean’s abiding memory was of his mother encapsulated in boiling flames, thrown over the top of their wagon, twisted and screaming in pain. His father had snatched up Sammy from the flaming wagon-bed and ordered Dean to take him and hide. John had stayed to try and rescue his wife, who looking back Dean thought, he must surely have known was already dead. Dean had clutched his brother to his tiny chest and run until he could run no more. Hiding in a small thicket of thorns he had listened to the screams and the crackle of flames throughout the long cold night. Come morning, hesitantly emerging, Dean had found the wagon train in ruins, the smell of charred flesh even now embedded in his memory. Of his mother there had been no sign except for greasy ash blackened debris - he hadn't dared look too closely. He had found their father crumpled under a tarp, the right side of his body horribly burned, his whole body coated in blood and the terrified child had stared in numb horror until the faintest of groans had brought the boy to his father's side.

As soon as he had been able, John had taken the boys and left the trail on foot. He never fully recovered from that night, his insides scarred and marred as horribly as his outsides. Whenever he could he would leave the boys on the edge of a settlement and head off in search of liquor to dull the pain of his wounds. When he had drank his full he would collect the boys and return to the wilds, always searching for the demons that had destroyed his life. Dean grew fast, learning to hunt and track, to forage food for himself and his brother, to steal and lie when they hit a town and provide what comfort to Sam that he could. And he learnt to fight. The first time John had found a demon, Dean had been 9 years old. Again he had taken hold of Sammy and ran to hide. When he had emerged hours later the demon had gone, leaving John half dead- his precious holy water spilt, his traps scuffed and ruined and new swaths of skin scarred and burned. From then on John did not rest, he sought every holy man, madman and sorcerer who could give him news on how to fight the Denizens of Hell. He searched long and hard for every opportunity to confront them. At last they discovered a shining blade that was able to slay the dred creatures, and the tide began to turn, one demon at a time. By the time Dean turned 15, he had fought more demons then he could count, he was hard and swift and deadly. It was a good thing too, because it was that year that John finally got his wish and joined his beloved wife in death. A lucky hit from a minor demon, a senseless, pointless death. The boys destroyed the demon responsible and stood dry eyed as they burned their father's bones. And when nothing but ash remained they picked up their packs and moved on. Continuing the only life they knew; they moved from outpost to outpost tracking and killing demons. The only things they had or needed were each other. And so they wound one about the other, closer than folk might have said was proper, if their opinion had ever been sought or heeded. It wasn't.

It was when Sam turned 18 that the world almost came to its inevitable fiery conclusion. The boys had tacked a demon, the most powerful they had ever heard tell off, and one tied up in their past. His name had been Yellow Eye. They had been woefully unprepared to face the Lord of Hell, but even still the demon had been unusually gleeful in the face of their attack. When Yellow Eye had greeted Sam by name and informed him that he had long been searching for the boy, Dean’s blood had run cold. The demon who had lead the attack that slew their mother and twisted their father, had an unholy investment in his brother. But his one small blade powerless against the demon he had been unable to prevent it snatching up the younger man - all the while mocking Dean that soon enough they would be reunited. For when Sam led the Hordes out of Hell to crush the world beneath his heel, Yellow Eye would ensure that Dean would be forefront to witness it. 

Suddenly finding himself alone and defeated, Dean’s grief and rage had known no bounds. His anger and determination had been terrible to behold and he had scoured the earth to find a solution. Using magic too black for the souls of good men, Dean had stood atop a mountain - the very same one that overshadowed the spot where Sam was born- and torn open a door into heaven itself. Storming the very throne room of god, he had demanded assistance in retrieving his brother. But the throne itself had been empty, the echoing halls long abandoned, and the Archangel Michael had watched him with implacable eyes and told Dean he would rescue the boy in due course, if Dean would give himself now, wholly and entirely into Michael's possession. And though his rage and grief threatened to consume him, Dean had spat in reply and turned his back on heaven, for his body and soul belonged to one man and one man alone, and it was not the Archangel Michael.

Dean had thus stormed out of heaven, thunder and fury in his steps, but before he could leave he had been halted by a call. A bright being clothed in light, surrounded by the massive shadow of black wings, had stood before the largest horse the man had ever seen. The beast’s coat like liquid night graced with the shine of a million stars, strength and power in its every line. And in a calm voice the angel had loudly bemoaned the tragedy that such a powerful loyal steed should loiter trapped in paradise when the very Gates of Hell would tremble beneath is powerful hooves. And peaceful deep blue eyes, that seemed to pierce the soul, had met with forest green as the angel solemnly repeated: the very Gates of Hell. Then the angel had turned and strode calmly away, as the horse turned huge onyx eyes upon Dean. Green eyes had narrowed thoughtfully as they met black, only flicking briefly to observe the departing angel, before Dean had gently stretched forth his hand to the beast. Greeted with a soft rumble and a flick of impatience, the man had swing himself smoothly atop the behemoth and though it bore neither saddle or reins it had lept fluidly into motion at the mere tap of one heel, and security bore its rider hence.

And as the angel of the lord had predicted the Gates of Hell had trembled and fell before the hooves of the midnight steed and Dean had stormed Hades itself, trampling the unsuspecting fiends in their path. Until finally, finally, he had stood at the lowest point of Hell and beheld the broken and mutilated body of his brother. Every inch of his skin marred and scarred. Every unknowable torment etched into his flesh. Wreathed in demonic flame, the blood of a hundred sacrificed demons pouring in unholy anointing onto his body, into his eyes, into his mouth, and his broken screams had mixed with maddened laughter echoing throughout the vault. And torn to his core with horror and grief, Dean had snatched up the putrid husk, turning his steed and throwing aside Yellow Eye, he had fled from the pit of damnation. And Sam had raged and scorned and bawled and vomited blood and wept flame. He had screamed for death for long months until slowly sanity replaced the flames of Hell in his eyes. But the blood of the Horde still flowed through his veins, and by no manner of spell or supplication could Dean clear it. And so Sam fought hour by hour, day by day, to resist the will of Hell and contain the wealth of power within his bones, so as not to lay waste to the Earth. And the only place he found succor and rest was wrapped in the one piece of his soul that was still pure and whole. The part that lay behind forest green eyes.

However, unbeknownst to them, the Lord of Hell had one last hand to play. Yellow Eye had traveled to the mountain in sight of the place of Sam’s birth, from whence Dean had assaulted heaven. Dean’s actions had left the way between realms weakened and thin, and Yellow Eye tore through the veil. Ripping open a Gate to Hell he let loose the demon Horde. But called by the siren song of Hell, Sam took up his brother and flew atop the shining black horse and rode to meet the Horde - and death followed at his heel. And though the great loyal horse had trampled hundreds of demons, and Dean’s knife cleared all that came into arms reach- the sheer numbers had began to overwhelm them. So Sam drank down rivers of demon blood and scored a bloody swath through their ranks, decimating their numbers and turning back the tide. And only his anchor, his brother, the pure half of his soul kept him from losing himself to the storm. Until at last the world was saved and Sam stood at the Mouth of Hell, burning and crackling with a fell power greater than any ever seen. The demon Horde had bowed its neck and slunk meekly back to Hell and Yellow Eye had been crushed under Sam’s heel. And the universe trembled at his might and offered to bow down and worship him. And all Power and Dominion and Glory was his and his alone, he had stood unrivaled and unchallenged with the world squeezed in his fist, his eyes as black as the void and wreathed in flame. And only one light did not bow, it stood behind him and slipped arms gentle and stalwart around his waist. It laid lips soft and strong on the side of his neck, and whispered gently and firmly in his ear: Sammy.

And for that one light - one word, one caress, one bastion against the night- the Boy who would be King had saved the world a second time, and it knew it not.

-

A realm away from the world weary men lost in thought while resting within a simple tavern, ageless blue eyes turn from placid contemplation and fall fondly to a scroll in hand. The prophet is still writing the gospel but the angel is drawn to this passage:

So now the man wanders the earth -  
One half of his soul is determined, sharp edged and standing tall,  
tight bound within emerald eyes.  
The other half of his soul scarred and battle weary, containing the power of the world,  
tight bound within eyes that are shifting, like a deep forest lashed by a storm.  
He searches for the remnants of the dread demon Horde, for his power can’t just be cast aside.  
And he rides a black horse sleek as lightning, and death follows along in his stride.

\---***---

Dean had absently cleaned and checked his weapons. He had also diligently inspected their meager supply of clothes and blankets, mending tears and holes with a small sewing kit he kept for that purpose, and night had fallen. 

The room was bathed in shadow and Dean rose taking flint and striker to light the night candle beside the bed. Sam had eaten at some point but still remained locked in contemplation, his eyes squeezed shut. Dean crossed through the shadows, gently placing himself on the edge of the bed, reaching out to remove his brothers boots. Rough calloused hands moving with infinitely gentle care. In the small flickering light of the single flame, hazel eyes shot through with emerald and blue opened slowly to behold him. The fires eternally residing there were muted and dim, and the glint of candle light reflected therein was a mocking prophetic omen. A raised eyebrow queried his brothers state even as Dean's fingers continued their task and removed a second boot. A softening of the eyes and the faintest hint of dimples, the best response that he could expect under the circumstances.

With care Dean shifted up the bed and pulled up towards himself the broad shoulders, strong fingers continuing on to the front of his brother’s chest to work open stiff buttons. Sam sat pliant, his stare intense on his brother's eyes as Dean removed the shirt and the under-vest, exposing heavy muscles and deep scars. There was no reaction to the cool air of the room, Sam often had no consideration for the common irritations of everyday life, his attention was still focused on Dean. Sam raised his own hands and repeated the gestures disrobing his brother. Dean in response held himself still, feeling the controlled power within those fingers and the unusual level of gentleness. Once both chests were bare he leaned in slowly, placing his open lips to his brothers and allowing the air to flow from his lungs into Sams and back. They kept their eyes open gazes locked, and after several moments Sam sighed and Dean licked gently across his lips.

Rising from the bed Dean pulled Sam up to his feet, efficiently he removed his brothers trousers and woolen socks before divesting himself of his own boots and garments. He grabbed a small vial of oil from the bottom of his pack and carefully placed it beside the night candle. Taking his brother once more in his arms he lowered himself back onto the bed pulling the other down on top. Sam still pliant and biddable. That wouldn't last long. Reclining on the bed, warm skin to warm skin, the rough cotton of the sheets under him luxery after so long in the wild, Dean allowed his fingers to trace up and down the rough patterns of welts engraved across Sam's back. Sam bent his head and placed a gentle kiss to the side of his brothers temple, a benediction and an apology in advance. The fingers that tightened in return and swept in long graceful movements up and down his spine, brushed away his apology, as always.

With a shiver and a sudden tightening of muscles, Sam surged downwards and clamped his teeth to his brothers neck in a crushing bite. Not to rend skin and spill blood but to mark claim and own. Dean shivered and spasmed beneath him, always initially surprised by the unleashed power but still inflamed. His cock hardened between them as Sam crushed their bodies together. Arms like bands of steel holding Dean immobile as Sam ground his errection downwards and mauled his mouth savagely at the junction between neck and shoulder. Panting filled the air from one pair of lungs, as growls and grunts spilled from the other, and even in the violence and apparent struggle the bodies moved in synchronicity, surging and rolling in balanced counterpoint. To the unknowing observer the brutality would have appeared horrific, the mating savage, but the familiar and shrewd observer would note, that the slight twist of Dean’s body was all that was needed, when the bright stabs of pain began to overwhelm the pleasure, to turn Sam from his point of obsession to a new point of interest. The harsh fingers that Dean pressed so hard into the longer brown hair sometimes pulled, sometimes twisted, sometimes scratched, sometimes pushed, but always Sam unconsciously heeded the instruction, like a flower automatically follows the sun, despite of the Hell worthy noises issuing forth from his throat. And as the snarls and frantic motions increased in intensity, Dean reached to the nightstand and popping the cork from the vial one handed tipped oil into his palm. Bringing it quickly back he shoved the hand between their writhing bodies and grasped firmly at Sam’s straining cock, long hard strokes coating its length in oil. Sam released the nipple he had been abusing and pushed up his brother’s body to lay his forehead to the other. The heavy growl and the over bright eyes said; hurry! And Dean did, reaching back for another palmful of oil, he thrust his hand back between their bodies, this time reaching further down, crunching his stomach to slather his hole and roughly insert 2 fingers. The pain was immediate and electrifying, it was also nothing compared to what Dean knew was coming and he felt himself tingle in anticipation. His pain pleasure receptors in this area thoroughly conditioned to the confusing duality. Several quick thrusts were all he managed before Sam began to shift impatiently, the rumble in his throat reaching dangerous levels. Dean wrenched out his fingers and twisted his wrist to leave any remaining oil smeared across his brother. He spread his legs wide allowing Sam to settle into the V before lifting up his knees. The position rolled his hips, bringing his slicked hole into contact with Sams leaking tip, and his brother roared and thrust in one explosive motion. 

If the other patrons of the inn were not distracted by the evening hubbub of the tavern, then they were wise enough not to investigate what was surely a beast of hell rending limb from limb their strange visitors. It was just as well, as for several seconds at this point Dean surrendered control. He had no idea what Sam would do if interrupted then. The best case scenario being that it would not even register, the only damage being the savage image forever seared into an observer's brain. 

When Sam had been rescued and first began to recover from Hell, Dean hadn’t considered the impact to their relationship, that not only the torment of Hell but also the forces now contained in his brother, would have. He had been entirely unprepared in their joining as the moment spiralled past the point of Sam’s control. The pain had been overwhelming and for the first time ever, his protest had had no effect on his brother who moved unconsciously with elemental instinct, his face locked in rictus snarl, his eyes consumed by flame. Sam had been mortified after, withdrawn, guilty and horrified but when finally coaxed to repeat the event the result had been the same. Between his intense emotions, raw power and his physical potential for destruction, all building between them as their bodies rose to point - everything surged past Sam’s ability to control, inundating his senses when the heat of his brother engulfed him. But only in direct unification with the only pure remaining part of his soul did Sam find peace. So Dean simply accepted the circumstances and give himself wholly over to his brother. Trusting his body to their bond. For several moments there would be no control, no difference, no mercy. Dean had learnt to prep and relax and welcome the savage lance of pain. Bowing before his brother, offering himself unreservedly, without safeguards or fail safes, allowing him to purge and expend the energy that lashed mercilessly at his daily control. But always after long seconds, awareness would return to Sam, the crushing grip of long fingers would ease from the punishing clamp on Dean’s shoulders. The explosive battery of slamming hips would shift into powerful thrusting rolls. And the terrible snarls of a beast from the depths of Hell would become pants and gasps of desperation, now begging for completion instead of ruin and destruction. 

And bathed in the flickering candlelight glow, secure inside the dim tavern room, long muscles rolling and clenching beneath sweat slicked skin- the two bodies once again moved in unison. Surging and crashing together in increasingly desperate pitch until every muscle in Sam's body locked and strained, held in shivering suspension for that glistening moment. And Dean waited (lived) for that splinter in time. Sam didn't close his eyes throw back his head and howl his release. He didn't set teeth to shoulder, snarling ownership. He pressed his forehead against his brothers, his eyes held wide and locked on their anchor, even at that too short range, and not a sound issued from his mouth. His breath stopped in his chest, his heart seized silent and as everything he was poured out of him, all that filled him up in return was the sight, smell, feel of Dean. And that, every time, was what ripped Dean's own completion from his body and pushed him gladly off that shining edge.

Afterwards they would lay close, both panting quietly as their abused bodies and butchered muscles began to relax. Occasionally Sam would weep. Small silent tears that would track down a blankly exhausted face as he placed the gentlest of kisses across the expanse of his brother. Not this time. This time his face was just glazed exhaustion, the fires expended and beast lowering to slumber. But still he turned his face into his brother's neck. Gentle lips ghosting over flesh he had ravaged and abused moments before. Palm coming up to press firmly against his brothers chest, the slowing heart beating strongly beneath his finger, anchored and secure, slowly letting sleep claim him.

Careful not to disturb his brother, licking the fingers of one hand Dean reached out to snuff out the candle. He snagged the discarded wool blanket to drape over their still naked bodies, regardless of damp and sticky skin. Large powerful shoulders atop a 6 foot 4 frame curved almost preposterously to allow the giant to nestle securely against his side. Face still buried in his neck, hand firmly glued against his heart. And Dean wrapped protective arms around the reluctant monster, rested a tender check atop the head of the slumbering beast and settled down to watch over the fitful sleep of the saviour of the world. 

\---***---

Early the next morning the brothers dress in silence. Sam preparing to face a more human horde. They need food, supplies and information, and Dean goes nowhere without his brother. A firm hand is raised to the back of Sam's neck, and as always his head is pulled down to rest on Dean’s forehead. Slow breaths, the eternal ritual between them, confirming, supporting and shoring up their resolve. Together they face it all. Folding back down the doubts and the complex pain of swirling emotions, and presenting strong faces to the world. 

Long black coats donned, but hats in hand, the two men take up their packs and move shoulder to shoulder through the hall to the tap room. Behind them the room shows no hint of their passing, other than the rumpled bed.

-

Felton is stood behind his bar, ever present rag in hand making lazy circles across the varnished wood. The early morning light slants in through the window and motes of dust canter lazily in the air. The tap room is quiet for the moment, many of the patrons still abed, and when the townsman becomes aware of their looming dark presence he starts violently. However he keeps his eyes low, and stills his hands. He’s thankful the tavern was rowdy last night, he has no way to categorise what he heard and praises all that is Holy that few others noticed the noise. But he knew from the second that these strangers appeared that they were far beyond the realm of mortal ken, and the wisest course of action he can advise himself is to keep out of their notice and ensure they leave appeased. 

“Morning Sirs, I trust ya slept …..well.” The customary patter is fading even before the sentence is finished, it calls to mind what he is avoiding thinking about. He clears his throat nervously, but the twin expressionless stares have not shifted an inch. “What can I get ya?” there, straight to business.

“Breakfast and hot Java if you have it.” That's the one what talks of course.

“Yessir we do. Find yerselves a seat and I’ll have the girl bring it on over.”

A nod in reply and they turn as one and move across the room. Its unsettling, the man thinks as he watches the pair. There is no lag or delay between their actions, each turn, each step, each redirection to avoid a table, executed at exactly the same time, as if truly one man moved to have breakfast not two. Felton drops his eyes and hurries into the kitchen. “Cookie, order up.”

-

Dean has found them a table in the corner, it offers good lines of sight to both the doors and the windows, it puts 2 walls at their back and allows a clear view of the almost empty room. It will do. They pull their chairs out together and set them side by side facing the room. The packs are placed behind, their hats laid on top and they lower themselves into the seats to wait. Shoulders a solid line of contact, thighs and ankles pressed firm. The merest flick of the connecting shoulder asks Sammy if all's good this far. The slow controlled deep breath in reply lets him know; holding steady. Neither pair of eyes shift from the room.

The coffee arrives minutes later, it's brought by a young pretty girl. Her blond hair hangs loose down her back and her dress is modest (it's a respectable tavern and the hour is early) but her assets are plain to see. She stares unabashed at the strangers, having not witnessed their arrival the day before, but as in any small town she had heard talk. She had dismissed most of it. But the men seated in the corner of the tap room, in the golden early morning light, are almost too much to behold. Both sit straight and proud, wrapped in dark shirts and black coats. One inches taller than the other with long light brown hair hanging loose across sharp high cheekbones and fox slanted eyes. Eyes that catch the light and shift between hazel and green with shy hints of blue gray. The other at his side has shoulders almost as broad and dark blond hair cut short and messy - as if hands have been run through it - his face is even and balanced with wide jade green eyes topping full soft pink lips. Had his stubbled jaw been less strong she would have called him beautiful. The girl finds herself staring at this one as she lays down the steaming hot cups, and she misses the tension creeping into the other. She receives nothing but a nod as green eyes shift to their partner and her light words are dropped before they even emerge, she turns and returns to the kitchen, and misses the arm that is laid across broad shoulders and the hand that curls firmly into the hair at the base of his neck.

-

When the girls returns later with plates stacked high with fresh bread, bacon, hens eggs and beans, old Wilt from the Tanners is sitting with Bill and they have their heads together and are muttering. They are flicking what they think are inconspicuous glances at the strangers, their mumbling low and consistent. The Strangers seem unconcerned as the girl places down the food. She tries for a coy smile and a “Can I get you anything else?” to green eyes. She doesn't put much suggestion into the question, it's 9 o’clock in the morning, but still, it's maybe just enough to make clear her interest. The reply is “No.” and nothing else, the green eyes are fixed on the food. And for a moment the girl is crestfallen as she turns to go. But maybe she thinks as she moves off, her hint was too subtle, the hour too early, maybe she will try him again later.

Within the taproom Felton notices the strangers are moving out of sync for once. The talker is eating but the other is staring, with tight eyes and a slight frown, towards the door to the kitchen. But a nudge of one elbow and two pairs of eyes meet for a long second. He has no idea what conversation they have in that silence, but he senses there is more than he knows, for the frown clears from the second and he moves to take up a fork. And within moments the men are both eating, movements falling unconsciously back into sync.

\---***---

It's later that morning and Dean is gathering up the supplies that they need from the general store. Salt, Iron tacs, alcohol, linen bandages, a new whetstone for his knife, good quality sewing thread, medicinal alcohol, a small supply of dried soup mix, trail bread and jerky for emergencies, a new pair of socks for Sam - his mind running quickly through the list to check he hasn't forgotten anything. They travel light, only what they can each fit in a pack, but some things you really can't forage. Ah yes another vial of oil. 

As the store owner collects and hands over the items, Dean passes them back to Sam who places them in their proper locations within the packs. At the same time Dean is making conversation, his voice as pleasant as it gets with anyone who isn't his horse or his brother. Weather this time of year. Cold spells, Storms? What are the trails like heading out from here. Problems with wolves, mountain lions? Been killing off the cattle? Any tell of sickness or madness in towns ahead. Any other strangers passed this way? Bandits? Fires? None of the questions are any more then you might expect from a cautious traveller passing through, but the answers tell far more than the store owner knows and soon the strangers have the information they seek. 

Moving to take up their packs and leave, their progress is halted by a girl. It's the girl from the tavern. Her cheeks are pink, whisps of hair fly round her face and she seems breathless, as if she has run through the town. The several top buttons of her dress have been undone and as she leans in coquettishly, the swell of her breasts are clear. “I thought I had missed you” she breaths, boldly daring to lay a hand on the green eyed stranger’s arm. “You know there is no reason to hurry out of town, if you need someone to show you around, I have plenty of spare time today.”

Sam’s eyes are trained on the hand, the hand which is not his own but is still daring to touch his soul. And a fine tremor begins in his muscles as the fire within his bones begins to boil - the black of his pupils expands. Dean has turned cold eyes towards the girl and is removing his arm, but Sam has pushed forwards, his presence expanding above his already impressive height. He towers over the suddenly fearful girl and thunder rumbles from his throat. 

The ignorant town girl has no idea that not only has she placed her own life in danger but that of the entire town as well. Most folk have the sense to give the mysterious strangers a wide berth, allowing them to complete their dealings and be on their way in peace. But ever so occasionally there is one foolish enough not to read the warning signs. It never ends well. Dean moves to stand in front of his brother and presses the whole line of his back to the trembling chest. The eyes he turns on the girl are artic. “You have no idea what you’ve done. Should you wish to live to see another day, I suggest you run.” The girl is obviously confused, she indeed has no idea what she’s done, but her overriding emotion is terror. The statement isn't delivered with threat and bravado but with the cold finality of the grave and behind him, the raging god with eyes of black and fire, growling thunder and lightning is constrained by only the flimsiest of barriers. Suddenly the girl understands the townspeople's talk, and she turns on her heels and flees.

Dean snatches hold of his brother's arm and drags him from the store, he briefly considers calling for the horse, but judging from the fire within his brothers eyes there is very little time indeed. Instead Dean pulls him round to the back of the store into the most secluded corner he can find and slams the other hard against the wall. He doesn't bother with nicety or whispered words, Dean wrenches violently at Sam’s belt buckle, opens his trousers, slams himself to his knees and swallows the flaccid cock in one. Sam’s rumbling shuts off with a sudden inhale as he slams his head back against the wall with enough force to shiver the planks. Dean just has to hope that the store owner does not come to investigate - for his own sake .

Immediately Sam begins to harden in his mouth and with a groan, large hands come up to clamp either side of Dean’s face. When Sam drops his chin to make eye contact with his brother, Dean can see that the eyes are still blown black and flickering with flame, but at least Sam is present in the flames. The growl that now slips from the throat is clearly want, underlain with a question, and Dean’s heart relaxes that Sam is able to ask. From his knees Dean cocks an eyebrow, in what would be a smug expression if his lips weren't stretched around his brother's cock, and settles both hands in a firm grip on Sam’s hips. Taking a deep breath, he sucks hard on the silken bar of flesh caged against his tongue, before relaxing his jaw and opening his throat. Sam doesn't need any further permission and clutching his hands hard, slams his cock into the warm wet depths. Dean’s eyes water at the first intrusion, it's a reflex not a protest. He tightens his grip and remains passive and calm, jaw loose and throat open, as the hot length thrusts into his body. The idea itself isn't erotic to him, but what he enjoys is the heat of Sam’s hands moulded to his face, the searing press of silky skin sliding over his tongue. The thick taste of his brother flooding his mouth, saliva which runs unheeded in strings down his chin, and the raw encompassing, undiluted scent of Sam and sweat and musk and home. The noises that Sam makes as his pleasure builds, dragged out of his throat in continuous growl - the single object of his obsession laid open, held securely before him - it sends the blood rushing to Dean’s groin, swelling him uncomfortably within his own trousers. 

When the hands on his face move to clench desperately in his short hair, Dean knows his brother is close. Holding tight and sucking in a quick gasp of air on the upstroke, Dean pushes his nose into his brother's body, and growls low in his throat around the blockage. Sam's body tenses up and he curls forward over Dean's head, deep within the throat hot lines of come burn their release. And Dean clutches brother's hips and fights against the reflex to choke as his throat is held open. After several seconds the onslaught slows and Dean is able to pull off with a gasp. Coughing roughly, saliva and come stream down his chin and his eyes water furiously. But Sam is panting, sweaty, curled over the top of his head and through the harsh dragging breaths Dean can makes out the “love you, love you, love you” being chanted through the gasps. With a shaky hand Dean wipes his face and pushes up to his feet, leaning up to uncurl his brother and press him back into the support of the wall. He offers his bruised and swollen lips for a kiss and Sam’s arms come up to clutch him tight as he worships at his mouth. Dean rolls his own hips lazily as he accepts the gentle kisses and considers the now quieted eyes. The half lidded, kaleidoscope eyes are clear and he is considering getting a hand down his trousers to take care of himself, when Sam suddenly turns them around.

Leaving his brother now pressed into the wall Sam drops clumsily to his own knees. His movements less graceful than they might have been, his muscles still wobbly and loose. His trousers are still open and his slickened cock lies exposed, easing against his thigh. He ignores it, placing gentle fingers to Dean’s belt, palms lightly caressing the hard line of cock before releasing it from its confines. Dean stares down at his brother stunned. Fucking in public isn't their first choice of action. Usually, away from the distractions of people, working Sam up like that with his mouth, would end with him being flipped over and thoroughly fucked. Afterwards the expenditure of energy nearly always wiped Sam out. It was rare to see him sated and controlled and still in full possession of his faculties. 

Jesus Christ. Dean growls low in his throat and violently introduces the back of his head to wall. Full possession of his faculties indeed. Sam has one hand twisting firmly around the base of Dean’s cock and has wrapped his mouth over the end. His tongue is lathing long broad strips at the tip, as his lips clench and pull at the shaft. The spare hand placed in a firm grip on Dean's thigh, pressing marks into the pale flesh even now. Dean's hands come up and bury themselves in Sam's long strands of hair. Fingers moving restlessly against his scalp. He is already well worked up from the face fucking, and it doesn't like him long to be skirting the edge. “Sammy!” the word is a warning, but Sam is already feeling the tension building in the thigh muscles, the desperation in the fingers gripping his hair and the tightening balls against his wrist. He hums in acknowledgment and moves in to take as much of the length as he can. Dean comes with a groan like a dieing man and shoots his release. And though Sam can't help but cough and choke as the stream hits his throat, he doesn't draw back and the spasms coax Dean on. By the time Dean softens and withdraws, both men are shaking and gasping for air. Rather than pull the other to his feet, Dean skins down to the floor and arranges them both side by side with their backs to the wall, knees drawn up. He slings one arm over his brother's shoulder as they rest their head back on the wall and pant gently to catch their breath. 

It takes a few minutes before Dean snorts a laugh, they are sitting in the open with their dicks hanging out, and panting like they just ran from Hell Hounds. It's a good job there is nothing behind the store but some storage space, but they should probably get their shit together. At Sam’s curious raised eyebrows, he merely turns in with his other hand and tucks Sam’s cock away, a small smile on his face. He has to take his arm off Sam's shoulders to get them both buckled up but once they are both mostly decent he sits back side by side. He jabs gently to the ribs with an elbow and keeping green eyes fixed forward says lightly: “That's been a while, was forgetting what that mouth of yours felt like Sammy. You start doing shit like that and next time you’ve fucked all the juice out of your system, I'm gonna turn you over and fuck you right back.”  
Sam huffs a small laugh, a real actual fucking-to-god laugh, and flicks his eyes to meet his brother’s “You’re more then welcome to Dean, all you gotta do is not blow your load when I end.”  
The mock stricken look on Dean's face shouts louder than words that that is never gonna happen. But a stab of guilt overlays the joke now and the smile falls from Sam’s face. Dean doesn't even give him the chance to utter any kind of apology for the way he is post Hell. Those are words he will never, ever require from his brother.

“Come on Sasquatch.” The nickname a rare childhood joke, the laughter in their lives now even less common than then. “Let's go grab the packs we left in the store and act as if the store owner’s deaf. Then on the way out of town we are going to go see the Laundry Woman and freshen up all our clothes.” Dean pauses slyly and makes sure he has firm eye contact with his brother, “an’ I bet one of her ‘wash girls’ can find me something to use as a cock ring.”  
Sam eyes widen noticeably and then impossibly the dimples flash once again as another small laugh breaks through his lips. Jesus Christ, two in one day. That has to be some kind of record.

\---***---

All told the strangers were barely in town for a day. Appearing at noon one day and then riding away on their beast, the next. No two of the townspeople who had meet them (or claimed to have met them, which it seemed included most everyone) told the same story, but most agreed that they had strode into town like the gods of old. Power, raw and terrible barely contained. And though one had done all the talking, it was the silent one most folk commented on. How though his face showed no expression, if you had stared into his eyes too long it drove you mad (-in fact had driven mad old Hetty the Tanner’s wife - although her daughter knew for a fact that the old woman hadn't even come into town that week). But the fact remained that worlds were contained within his hazel eyes (“no blue”, “no! brown”, “actually green like the grass”, “no…. Black as the night and wreathed in flames”) and each man saw only what he needed to see, but when they passed over you, you shivered and counted your blessing, because you knew you had come too close to something that could never be. 

And so the legend twisted and grew, the story of the apparition that had appeared in Goodwill. A dark giant clothed in garments of black with all the power of the World in his eyes. And all who beheld him felt a chill their back, for he rode a black horse and death followed at his call.

Epilogue

The great steed thunders across the plains, the sound rumbling and roaring like a heard in stampede. Its hide flashing like lightning across the blackest clouds of an oncoming storm. Leant over its neck, hands wrapped in the streaming mane, two men are carried irrepressibly onwards. Before them flees a general of Hell and three ragged demon minions. The spawn of Hell are unable to outpace the shining hooves that bear inexorably down on them. 

The horse screams a battle neigh as it ploughs over the trailing-most demon, trampling its hooves and crushing its foe. 

The men throw themselves into the fray as the minor demons flee away from their general. Whether as a diversion or to save their own hides, it matters not. The men and beast have worked together for too long to be stumped by the move. 

The tallest man takes point, flying to battle the leader, feeling the fires of Hell unfurl within his bones.

The fleeing demon is chased down by the great horse black as night. It falls screaming under dark hooves. 

And the final demon takes a knife to the chest - lightning flashes within its eyes and mouth as its lifeforce is extinguished.

And Sam stands tall before the general of Hell, his eyes are wild and his pupils are blown. Little colour remains in his irises and the black continues to grow. His right hand is extended before him, his figure cuts the sky like a god, and the demon screams as it frantically throws forth its power. Buffeted but not even challenged, Sam merely tightens his grip, and his face is vicious as he one by one begins snapping the demon’s bones. Dean approaches slowly. A clinical eye observes the demon screams, but a more particular look tracks the inky void alight with flame, that's spreading through his brother’s eyes. And as always he stands at his brother's back and leads his way back home.

\---***---

The night grows late and begins to settle, and a gentle wind is blowing across a secluded dell. A small fire lights two brothers, for once slumbering peacefully in each other's arms. A bright being clothed in light and surrounded by the shadow of black wings, stands before the largest horse any man man had ever seen. The beast’s coat is liquid night graced with the shine of a million stars, strength and power is its every line. Peaceful deep blue eyes that seem to pierce the soul, meet liquid eyes of onyx and in a quiet voice the angel bids, “Take care of them my friend, there’s a long road yet to wind, but only carry them onwards, and the weary will find peace and rest, and weep no more I swear.” 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Aside A/N
> 
> Eeek well that's it. Hope you liked it!
> 
> Just a note on the title:  
> Of course the boys needed to ride a black horse because in my pre-industrial setting cars haven't been invented and we couldn't forget about Baby!  
> But fic title vaguely gives reference to the third horseman of the apocalypse who rode a black horse (mostly because I like the symbolism.) The third was closely followed by the fourth rider on a pale horse, whose name was Death and whom Hades followed behind. But the more I thought about it, I wondered if I should keep the title because the third horseman is commonly referred to as Famine, and the boys are not a plague on the land to leave hunger and loss in their paths. However if we take some perspective from the show, and call Famine a burning hunger within your soul for the thing that you want most (powerful enough to make you do anything to attain it) then I thought it applied nicely to the boys and each other. (And Dean is not dead inside, because we know there is one thing in all the world that he holds above all else). So in effect Sam became the third horseman in Hell as well as the Boy King, but the fact that Dean was there to redirect the effects meant that it just became another aspect of their existence rather than a plague on the earth.  
> Its funny the nuances you can find in a story, just because Baby is a black car, and you thought a title sounded cool :P


End file.
